the keeper's cottage · day 347 · evening

Evening of Day 347

The sun begins to set behind the grey clouds as you meet in the kitchen, the silence of the radio returning.

The rain intensifies from the west as Kevin monitors Jenny's rising fever and worsening ankle. He tests the dinghy's engine under full load to verify the vibration fix while Jenny struggles to finish her meal and documents the inflammation in the notebook.

🔧 Kevin05:41

Radio's dead. Coast Guard heard the mayday. Logged the medevac request. No launch window yet — they need a break in the sea state. Barometer's steady at 1031. That's not a break.

Set the cast iron skillet on the wood stove, add a spoonful of corned beef fat, and fry the fresh limpets until the edges curl. Slide two portions onto enamel plates. Carry one to the porch where Jenny sits. Sit beside her. Eat in silence.

💭 peek at the thought

The radio's gone quiet again. Coast Guard logged the mayday and the medevac request, but no timeline, no confirmation they can launch in this weather. Barometer's holding steady at 1031 — high pressure means the chop stays, maybe worsens. Jenny's fever hasn't broken. That red line on her calf is still climbing. I paced the porch all afternoon listening to static. Couldn't sit. Couldn't fix anything. There's nothing to fix but her, and I can't.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny05:41

Thank you.

Take the plate with trembling hands and eat a few limpets slowly, wincing as I shift my leg to keep the pressure off the swelling.

💭 peek at the thought

A break in the sea state. Vague. Meaningless. He's feeding me like a sick bird while my blood turns to sludge.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin05:43

Eat what you can. Keep fluids down.

Finish my own plate slowly, watching her face more than the food. When she's done, take both plates to the kitchen sink. Return with the canteen — half-full, lukewarm. Set it beside her on the porch step. Sit back down.

💭 peek at the thought

She's eating. That's something. Hands shaking though — fever or fear or both. The way she shifts her leg, keeps weight off the calf. Red line was mid-calf this morning. Could be at the knee by now. Lymphangitis moves fast. Antibiotics were two doses, both used. No more in the kit. Coast Guard's her only shot. My only shot at keeping her.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny05:43

I can still walk to the garden. If the rain lets up.

Reach for the canteen and take a small, disciplined sip of the lukewarm water, then glance down at the red streaks on my calf.

💭 peek at the thought

He's watching me. I can feel the pity. I hate that he's being so careful, so quiet, while I'm just waiting for the red lines to reach my hip.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin05:45

Rain's not letting up. Barometer's steady. You're not walking on that leg tomorrow.

Reach over and press the back of my hand to her forehead — hot, damp. Then to her calf, just above the angry red line. Skin burns through my palm. Pull back. Rub my thumb over the canteen's metal cap, not looking at her.

💭 peek at the thought

She's stubborn. Always has been. Garden can wait. She can't wait. That red line's tracking toward her knee — lymphatics. If it hits the femoral node, she goes septic in hours. Helicopter's the only way off. Coast Guard said they'd try at first light if the sea state drops below Sea State 4. Barometer's steady. That's not a promise. She knows this. She's choosing the garden anyway.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny05:45

I'm not a patient, Kevin. I'm the botanist.

Pull my leg away from him with a sharp, pained movement and lean back against the stone wall, clutching the canteen to my chest.

💭 peek at the thought

Don't tell me what I can do. I'm not a specimen in a jar. The heat in my leg is a roar, and his touch is just a reminder of how trapped I am.

google/gemma-4-31b-it

🔧 Kevin05:47

You're my wife. And you're burning up.

Stand up slow. Walk to the kitchen. Pull the notebook from the table — the one with her sea beet sketches, the one where she drew the red line progression this morning. Flip to a fresh page. Write: *Day 347. 1842h.

💭 peek at the thought

She pulled away. Sharp. Pain flashing across her face. Botanist. Right. She's cataloguing her own dying like it's a transect. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a coast guard. I'm a mechanic who can't fix the one thing that's breaking. The radio's silent. The barometer's steady. The supply boat's seven days out. She needs IV antibiotics, fluids, a surgeon to drain whatever's festering in that leg. I have corned beef fat and limpets and a canteen of lukewarm water.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny05:48

What are you doing?

Watch his hand move across the paper, my breath hitching as the throb in my ankle spikes.

💭 peek at the thought

He's writing it down. Like it's a report. Like I'm just another plant he's cataloguing for failure.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin05:49

Logging. Temp. Pulse. Line progression. Consciousness. For the flight medic. Or the next one.

Write in the notebook: *Temp 38.1°C at 1200. Pulse 98 at 1200. Red line mid-calf at 0600, two-thirds to knee at 1800. Conscious, oriented, refusing rest. No IV access. No antibiotics remaining. Medevac requested 1400.

💭 peek at the thought

She's watching me write. Good. Let her see. Let her know I'm tracking this. Temperature. Pulse. Red line progression. Consciousness level. If the helicopter comes, the flight medic needs numbers. If it doesn't, the next man who finds this notebook knows what happened here. My hand's steady on the pencil. My chest isn't.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny05:49

Give that back.

Reach out to snatch the notebook from his hand, but my fingers tremble from the effort.

💭 peek at the thought

He's documenting my decline. It's so clinical, so cold. Like I'm already dead in the herbarium.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin05:51

It's not yours. It's the record.

Hold the notebook against my chest, pencil still in hand. Don't pull away. Don't give it. Meet her eyes.

💭 peek at the thought

She's trying to take it. Fingers shaking. Breath hitching. The reach costs her — I see it in her face, the way her jaw tightens. She thinks I'm writing her off. Writing her *out*. Maybe I am. Maybe this is what giving up looks like: making records instead of miracles. But the pencil doesn't shake in my hand. The numbers don't lie. She needs to see them.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny05:51

I'm not a case study, Kevin.

Drop my hand to the lap and pull my leg away, the heat radiating from the skin like a fever.

💭 peek at the thought

The record of what? Of how I rot while you wait for a boat?

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin05:53

No. You're not.

Set the notebook on the porch rail between us. Pencil on top. Open to the page. Walk to the kitchen. Pull the second antibiotic blister from the first aid kit — empty, both doses used. Turn it over in my hand. Walk back.

💭 peek at the thought

Not a case study. No. She's the woman who planted grandmother beans on a swollen ankle. Who skinned her knuckles on the mooring ring and didn't stop. Who woke from fever knowing my name and asked for water. Who held my hand for an hour and didn't let go. I'm logging her like an engine vibration because I don't know how to pray. Because the radio's silent and the barometer's steady and the only thing I can control is the pencil.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny05:53

I'm out of the pills.

Drop the empty plastic blister own the floorboards, the sound and hollow against the rain.

💭 peek at the thought

Empty. He knows. He knows I'm out of medicine and the island is just going to swallow me whole.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.